[Imogen Slaughter] (… that was freakishly fast)
[Imogen Slaughter] (or is it coincidence? *LOL*)
[Rory O’Bryne] (coincidence! I’d just decided maybe it was the room I was in that was remaining empty, so thought to go elsewhere. If I’m intruding, I’ll pick another room…)
[Imogen Slaughter] (pfft. No, I was actually coming in here to lure people out. sadly, Imogen never goes to the caern/TB so!)
[Rory O’Bryne] (Perfect then! Do you prefer to start?)
[Imogen Slaughter] (I can start)
[Imogen Slaughter] The bar’s open mic’ night is running slowly. There are a few patrons, mostly here for the drinks, and fewer musicians to play. Perhaps it is the weather, or the coming autumn. Perhaps it is simply the ebb and flow of the business, as the bar-tender says philosophically to one patron who mentions it.
She’d come out tonight, perhaps with the intention of playing, but the crowd isn’t the right vibe, or she’s not in the right mood. Either way, her guitar remains silent in its case, leaned against the table’s edge, and instead, Imogen eats a meal, has a drink.
The soup of the day is tomato, and that, with a half tuna-melt completes her Sunday night dinner. Her eyes lift as a reed thin man takes the stage, watching as he takes his banjo, an unexpected instrument, and starts up a rocketing song, his fingers deft and quick on the strings.
The kinwoman’s eyebrow arches slightly at the unexpectedness before she reaches for her pint glass, taking a deep swallow.
There are some things that can only be sensed – and not by humans or kinfolk. The air of good breeding around the slight kinwoman, the so-called blessing of good family, good blood, good breeding. It takes a Garou seconds to recognize her for what she is. Moments to feel her blood.
[Rory O’Bryne] The moon hangs full overhead, the weight pressing against her, igniting the fire that boils in her blood, and causing people to make a rather wide berth around her, causing her to stand out for so much more than her mass of red curls that cannot be contained, or her pale skin. People fear her, for no reason they can put their fingers on. She’s not a large woman by any means, and at a glance seems fragile, easily broke – yet still they pull away, and try to forget they’ve seen her.
She also doesn’t like to rely on others for anything – let alone her meals. That is why she is here on a Sunday, where the open mic night is slow. She appears from the back, talking to the manager briefly. His forehead creases in confusion here and there, as he stares at her, and she presses her case. A few moments later, cash exchanges hands, and she tucks it away in a pocket. She points to a table out of the way, where she won’t bother anyone, and heads in that direction.
She doesn’t make it that far. There are things that can only be sensed – and Imogen Slaughter demands the attention. She is one of her own blood, good breeding. She is, ironically, more valuable to the tribe than Rory herself. She pauses briefly as she passes the table, watching the kinfolk, conflicted, perhaps. Say hello, or keep moving. Somehow, she does both – a little half wave, and another step forward.
[Imogen Slaughter] Rory catches sight of the slender red-haired kinwoman, and pauses, indecisive. She is stuck between continuing on her way and stopping by – drawn by breeding, by an automatic common ground. The younger woman does a combination of both – a wave, a step in the direction of her original destination.
Imogen’s skin is pale, her eyes dark blue – those eyes rest upon the Garou for several seconds before the wave, and then for several seconds afterwards. Her eyebrow arches at the first gesture. Then it lowers, and her eyes narrow.
Several seconds pass in stillness – a mutual regard, perhaps, and if Rory does continue to look at her, stranger to stranger, she’ll note Imogen’s gaze to be sharply direct, almost disconcertingly so. Particularly from one of the half-bloods to a full-blood.
Then – a nod. Subtle, simple.
That’s all, for now. It can be taken as invitation, acknowledgement, greeting. Open to interpretation.
[Rory O’Bryne] She continues to look, though she drops her gaze down, away, before it comes back again. Shy, maybe. expecting rejection, certainly. Imogen’s gaze is too direct, sharp. But when she nods, some of the tension goes out of slender shoulders and Rory takes a breath, and stops, her hand resting on the back of an empty chair at the kinswoman’s table.
“I’m Rory.”
[Imogen Slaughter] A pause. “Imogen.”
A beat. “New t’Chicago, are yeh?”
To a stranger, this conversation would seem sudden. Direct. They might think Rory is trying to pick Imogen up. They might think it’s a meeting of the redheaded convention.
[Rory O’Bryne] She nods, slightly. “Douple cays.” Her phrasing is oddly dyslexic though she doesn’t seem to notice it herself. Backwards, twisted, confused. And in no way consistent, as she asks “May I join you?” perfectly.
She looks over at the banjo player, brow creasing momentarily, before her attention returns fully to the kin. Strangers have thought far worse of her than her trying to pick up another red-headed woman. For the most part, the rest of the patrons disappeared from her notice the moment she saw Imogen anyway.
[Imogen Slaughter] Douple cays, Rory says, and Imogen’s eyebrow lifts upward, “I beg your pardon?”
She asks if she can join, sensibly, comprehensibly. The kinwoman merely nods her head, tilting her head toward the table opposite in answer. A wordless go ahead.
[Rory O’Bryne] Her brow creases in confusion, as she repeats her comment. “Couple days.” Which is exactly what she said the first time, she thinks. She watches to see if that was clearer, even as realization of what she must have done crosses through pale green eyes. She drops her gaze to the table, hiding her expression (resignation, frustration) as she takes a seat.
She slips from her jacket – a simple affair, sturdy and warm – and hangs it over the back of the chair. Under that, a simple t-shirt and dark wash jeans. She’s no fashion plate, for sure, far preferring function over form.
“Sorry. My words..” and she gestures, absently. It’s difficult to correct something that you don’t realize happens.
[Imogen Slaughter] Couple days, Rory repeats herself, at least to her ears. Imogen hears it for the first time, then blinks slightly as she realizes the error.
“Not t’be blunt,” she says, a politeness that is merely for its effect, not because she worries for Rory’s feelings, “but d’yeh always ha’ problems like tha’?”
[Rory O’Bryne] Not to be blunt, the kinswoman says, and Rory’s lips slip into a wry grin, slight but there. She meets her eyes briefly, but the contact isn’t long, isn’t overbearing. She’s aware of the moon, of her own rage, of her presence and the difficulty of it in enclosed places. It’s a form of politeness – if not you’re everyday variety.
And she’s honest. “They say so. Said it’s a dental meformity. I don’t wear anything hrong when it happens, though. ”
…obviously, yes.
[Rory O’Bryne] (You’re = your. Because I know grammar, really.)
[Imogen Slaughter] There’s a brief pause after Rory’s spoken, but now that Imogen has at least identified the nature of the disability, she is able to translate.
“Who is ‘they’?”
[Rory O’Bryne] “Arizona Elders.”
A woman of her complexion in Arizona? She must burn like crazy, and be a huge fan of sunscreen. She pushes her curls behind her ear, though they won’t be contained very long. “It’s my dirth befect…”
..because those of her breed always are born defective, often in more ways than one. If there’s anything else wrong with this Fianna, however, it’s not so easily seen.
[Imogen Slaughter] A moment. Imogen is clearly deliberate – she does not speak without thinking. But it does not soften her reply.
“You’re a mule.” It’s not a question.
She draws a breath, then dismisses the subject. “Has someone directed yeh t’where yeh need t’go? Places o’ meetin’ and th’like?”
[Rory O’Bryne] She nods. “Yes, ma’am.” She seems to wait for another question, or even a dismissal for the fact of her birth alone. It’s happened before, regularly, and she expects it. Imogen dismisses the subject, however, and moves on.
Another nod. “Marrick.” single words are easier, for obvious reasons. Even so, as she hears nothing wrong herself, she continues. “She hook me to the trotherhood, too.”
[Imogen Slaughter] “Good.” Relieved of that duty, she picks up her pint glass, takes a deep swallow and sets it down.
Silence then. Thoughtfulness. Then: “Fianna?” it’s a question, an educated guess.
[Julian Riley] (You guys are in a bar correct?)
to Imogen Slaughter, Rory O’Bryne
[Imogen Slaughter] (yeah, it’s a kind of pub/bar type. I haven’t set any sort of theme to it except it has a [rather dead] open mic’ going on, so whatever works best for your PC is fine. *LOL*)
to Julian Riley, Rory O’Bryne
[Julian Riley] [(grins) okay]
to Imogen Slaughter, Rory O’Bryne
[Rory O’Bryne] Speaking of something to drink, a skittish waitress finally arrives with Rory’s drink and sandwich. She sets it down, and scurries off, forgetting to even ask Imogen if she needed a refill. Rory takes a sip of her soda before she nods – educated guess indeed. Rory might as well have it tattoo’d on her forehead.
“Yes.” simple answer, nice and direct. She doesn’t ask Imogen – likely assuming because that is what her blood reads, and why should it be any different? Such things are frowned on at her home sept. Many things were frowned on there – including Rory. Often.
“You’re…” a pause, because it’s not the breeding she’s questioning, but the accent. “..British?”
[Imogen Slaughter] Their conversation might well be considered disjointed. Imogen asks direct questions, Rory gives precise answers. It may be that the red-haired woman is trying to accommodate Rory’s obvious disability. She certainly does not seem to be encouraging the metis with small talk.
“Yes,” the easiest answer – leaving out the complexities of the United Kingdom.
A moment’s pause. “But not Fianna,” she clarifies, for the sake of formality. “Not fer some time.”
[Julian Riley] It’s a bar. It could be any bar really, because it was as generic as some of the people that sat at the tables and bar inside of it. Julian didn’t frequent bars, he wasn’t even a drinker, yet here he was … pushing through the door of the place like he’d been there before – even if he hadn’t. He’s a tall man, not overly so at just 6′, and of a slim build. The sweater he wears is navy blue and of a designer label, it zips up the front and at present he has it zipped to up near his collar bone.
It’s open mic night – or so the sign says. There isn’t much of a show, a few friends dare one another to take a turn at the mic …but there are very few takers tonight. His Rage fills up the place. Where there is a decidedly lack of bodies, his Rage has claimed that space. He doesn’t look like a killer, but something about the man in his late twenties with the rich brown hair and the beginnings of a beard feels like a killer. Or, it feels like something a good many of the bars patrons want nothing to do with.
His eyes instinctively find Imogen, then Rory. There’s no sign of acknowledgment other than the slight, polite, tip of his chin in a polite nod. Standing at the bar, he orders a Coke and reaches his hand back into his pocket for his wallet.
[Rory O’Bryne] She tips her head, slightly, her gaze coming up to meet Imogen’s briefly, as something akin to shock goes through her gaze. “They let you?” Confusion. It’s not much of a stretch to realize Rory hasn’t been ‘allowed’ to do anything other than obey the strictest set of rules for some time. Fianna are traditionally hard on their mules, and Arizona had tradition to spare. It’s there in the smallest things, her obvious mannerisms that show respect for a kin who is above her in station, despite the fact she is only half-blood. The way her eyes drop, submission in simple things, the way she answers questions directly – and is thankful the questions can be answered in such a way.
She shakes it off, and then smiles, a little. “Who?” Claimed her – what tribe, presumably.
She looks up as she feels eyes on them, and sees Julian. She meets his gaze briefly, and than drops her own. There’s no denying what she is, any more than those closest to him feel the violence in his blood. She answers his nod with a slight one of her own, then asks her companion about him. “Acquaintance?”
[Imogen Slaughter] The kinwoman’s mouth downturns slightly, a flicker of an expression. “They weren’t asked,” there is a distinctness to her diction. An exactness.
The question. Imogen’s answer, “They call me Fenrir.” Another preciseness.
The redhead turns to glance toward the bar, picking Julian out among the few patrons. “I’ve never met th’bloke in my life.” The doctor’s dark gaze cuts back to the mule who sits across from her, “It seems t’be a night fer newcomers.”
[Julian Riley] Julian knows neither of the women, but he was a polite man and there was a familiarity about the both of them that he felt it would have been rude not to acknowledge. Coke in hand, paid for and wallet returned to the back pocket of his jeans … Julian slowly unzips his sweater half way. He was getting warm in such close quarters. His eyes shift again back toward the women with the red hair, but his attention is primarily focused on Rory rather than the kinswoman.
After a few moments of consideration, the Irish Catholic Bostonian who is not Fianna makes his way toward the table. He weaves gracefully through empty and half full tables until he reaches Imogen and Rory. “Good evening…” He begins, unsure of where to go from there.
[Rory O’Bryne] “Oh.” Her eyes widen, and she pauses with her sandwich halfway to her mouth, shocked for a moment, before she gives another mental shake, and grins. “Cool.”
She notes the precise way that Imogen phrases her affiliation. Though she says nothing, it makes that grin widen before she takes the bite of her sandwich. She sets it back on the plate, and chews carefully, contemplatively. She does not talk with her mouth full, she is unfailingly polite that way.
It’s a night for newcomers, says Imogen, and Rory looks up at the bar once again, just in time to see him approach. She watches, reaching for her soda and taking a sip to wash down her sandwich. Her reply to his opening is simple. “Hi.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Good evening, says Julian, not entirely sure where to go from there. Rory says hello, and little else.
Imogen regards Julian, then Rory, then back to the new comer.
“I assume you’ve come ‘ere because yeh know what we are,” she says, “and not because you’re lonely.” A beat. “Ha’ a seat, if yeh want.”
[Rory O’Bryne] (.)
to Rory O’Bryne
[Julian Riley] “Yes, Ma’am.” He says and smiles to the both of them. “My name is Julian Riley…” The placement of his roots would be obvious to anyone familiar with the Northeast portion of the United States. His R’s are almost non-existent and his vowels roll low from his lips. It’s a non-rhoticity dialect with a broad A. Imogen begrudgingly invites him to sit and so he does, by Rory.
“I’m sorry to interrupt …I don’t know many people of our sort in Chicago.” He is polite. Educated. Very well mannered and awfully full of Rage.
[Julian Riley] (sorry for the delay)
[Rory O’Bryne] He introduces himself, and he sits himself next to Rory, who glances at him, meets his gaze, “Rory.” then drops her gaze away again. She doesn’t know many in Chicago either, of their sort or otherwise, and with her affliction, the bulk of the conversation will be in Imogen’s hands anyway.
She adjusts her seat to tuck her foot under opposite knee, and reaches for her sandwich again. She finally adds. “Tew, noo.” Her words are mixed up, backwards, something of a verbal dyslexia, if you will. While she hears it correctly, the similar sounding words actually identify her as new to town as well.
[Imogen Slaughter] “Imogen Slaughter,” she offers her name in its entirety this time. Her eyes move slightly to Rory as she speaks, understanding the dyslexic speak a little more easily this time.
She drains her beer and sets it aside before speaking again.
“New t’the city seems t’be the theme fer tonight,” she observes, this time for Julian’s benefit, “At least here.”
A pause, then she repeats much the same question as she had posed Rory only a handful of moments ago, “Yeh found th’important locations yet?”
[Rory O’Bryne] (.)
to Rory O’Bryne
[Rory O’Bryne] She makes her way through another bite or two without having to say anything. Imogen gives her last name, and Rory tucks the information away, just as she has the other things she’s been told. When Imogen’s eyes move her way, she offers her own, in return. Single word, easy. “O’Bryne.”
It’s not hard to imagine why she doesn’t give her full name at one time. It took quite a bit of convincing to get the others to stop calling her ‘Bory’ at home after making once such slip.
(looks like we lost him…)
[Imogen Slaughter] (Aaaaaaaaaaaand Julian goes to the loo!)
[Imogen Slaughter] Julian leaves, excusing himself to go to the washroom, and Imogen leans back in her chair, briefly watching the unfamiliar Garou go.
She turns her attention back to Rory, “They call it ‘spoonerism’,” she says after a moment, “or sometimes marrowsky. Did th’Elders tell yeh that?”
[Rory O’Bryne] She blinks, and it’s clear that no, she’d never been told. She had grown up being ridiculed, and among all the things she was told about herself, she was never told this – it’s real enough, and it has a name.
Her brow furrows slightly as she digests this. “It.. nas a hame?”
Added to the shock is that a stranger would know this, and share it with her. She settles back in her chair, her hands in her lap her gaze distant for a few moments. “They never said. Said I was too hucked up in the fead because of birth, too stupid to know I don’t ralk tight.” She shakes her head, and pushes those curls back away from her face.
[Imogen Slaughter] Truthfully, it’s comprehensible, so long as one has the context. There is hardly any pause when Imogen answers, this time.
“It does. Try a library ‘r the internet.” A pause.
“Yer kind does not always follow th’same rules as humans, but.” A slight shrug, a faint smirk, which has utterly no humour in it, “It’s more than ‘fucked up in th’head.'”
[Rory O’Bryne] Her grin is shy, and she ducks her head to hide it. Spoonerism. Marrowsky. She can put a name on it now, it’s not just something that happens, something she can’t control or explain, because she lacks the frame of reference to do so. With a name, it’s a real affliction, it’s not just that she’s stupid. She’s not stupid at all – just… uneducated.
“OK.” a nod. She scratches an itch on her shoulder with her fingertips, and then looks up up at Imogen. She points at the kinfolk, curious, and asks “Doctor?”
How else would she know such a thing?
[Imogen Slaughter] Her mouth curves slightly, it’s little more than a smirk. “Yes.”
To the point, at least. Uneducated is the last word that would be used to describe Doctor Slaughter. Nor is stupid, though one imagines, a whole host of unflattering terms can be assigned.
“Not th’type tha’ could help yeh, though. Internet or library will be more useful.”
[Rory O’Bryne] She nods, accepting that easily enough. It’s a simple curiosity that has her ask next. “Type?” to see just what Dr. Slaughter practices.
It’s curiosity mostly. She’s always had a healthy helping of that, at least, which is why her meal is on the house, thanks to the curious tinkering in the back that led to a fixing of their soda machine, so that it dispenses the correct amount of syrup. Nothing’s worse than an unbalanced, bitter, soda.
It doesn’t pay much in the way of bills – but Rory does her best not to accrue any, so it works out in the end. Keeps her fed. What more could she need?
[Imogen Slaughter] “Forensic pathology,” she answers the question after a pause. “S’the study o’ cause and method o’ death in corpses.”
In a nutshell.
[Rory O’Bryne] Her brows lift, and she grins. “You see pead deople.” Rory is certainly not without humor – despite all the things that could make her so. “Like CSI?”
Of course like CSI. Now she wonders if they play the dramatic music in a dingy lab,with glowy instruments and blood scans and… wait maybe blood splatter. “Or Dexter?”
Rory watches too much TV.
[Imogen Slaughter] (Is my AIM working?! Are you IMing me?)
to Rory O’Bryne
[Rory O’Bryne] (checks)
to Rory O’Bryne
[Imogen Slaughter] You see dead people.
Or something like that.
“One day,” Imogen says, deadpan, “that movie will pass out o’ pop culture.” A pause. “I look forward t’that day.”
The subsequent questions provoke a wry smirk. “Is bein’ a Garou much like American Werewolf in London?”
[Rory O’Bryne] She duck her head, sort of repentant, but not exactly, not entirely. And the returning question has her lifting a hand to cover her mouth, and the soft laughter that brings.
“No, ma’am. toint paken.”
She glances up, hoping she didn’t really offend Imogen.
[Imogen Slaughter] It’s difficult to tell. There’s little offered in her expression, no outward fury, no immediate sharpness. Her humour can frequently be mistaken for offence.
Still, one imagines, were she offended, she’d say … something. Do something. Stalk away, end the conversation.
Instead, she offers this: “CSI and all th’ spinoffs ha’ done a lot fer school enrolments, but little fer actual understandin’ o’ the actual career. But,” a slight shrug, “s’probably th’closest comparison yeh’re goin’ t’get at present.”
[Rory O’Bryne] She nods, slightly. It makes sense. Her hand falls from her mouth and finds her soda again, draining what’s left by half, before she sits it on the table once more. She’s at some point finished most of her sandwich too. The rest will be a late night snack. Unlike many where she came from, she doesn’t eat very much.
Her leg swings gently under the table, from where it’s draped over her opposite foot, tucked on the seat. “Like it?” A pause. “the mob, I jean.”
Sometimes, the Spoonerism’s are more amusing than others.
[Imogen Slaughter] Her pause is not for humour but for a moment’s reflection.
“Well enough,” she says. “I’m very good at what I do.”
[Rory O’Bryne] She likes it well enough, and is also very good at it. If Rory had hazarded a guess, she’d figure that was the answer. In the short conversation, the Fianna Kin doesn’t strike her as the type to do something for long that she doesn’t enjoy on some level.
“They” there’s that they again, only this time it’s meant local, “ask you to help bide hodies, cleanup?” There’s that curiosity again… she means no offense by it, just curious.
[Imogen Slaughter] “Sometimes they do,” there is a certain stress to the word ‘they’. She capitalizes it almost. Gives it more weight than it might have otherwise.
“Mostly I do it without their request.”
[Rory O’Bryne] She nods.
“I’d think They’d” and she always capitalizes it – habit, more than anything else, born of her life as a mule in a sept where she is brought up to be lower than the lowest kin – until they need another body to throw at the enemy. “wet in the gay more than not, anyway.”
[Imogen Slaughter] This time, the pause has more to do with what Rory said than any required thought on her words. Rory must be accustomed to a variety of responses by now. From outright laughter to confusion to derision. Imogen, for the most part, appears to be ignoring it.
“Why do you say tha’?” Curiosity for curiosity, perhaps. Imogen, after all, has been answering Rory’s questions for some time.
There is a sharp directness to the query, an unflinching management of her words.
[Julian Riley] He’d excused himself, went off to the bathroom and then out to use his cell phone. When he comes back it’s with an apologetic smile pressed on his lips. For all of his Rage and as much as he battled daily to control it, he wore an easy and pleasant expression. He sits back down, joining the conversation midway as he had done when he first approached the table of red heads.
“I’m sorry.” He says quietly, his eyes going to his watered down Coke.
[Rory O’Bryne] A question. Sharp and direct. She opens her mouth to answer it, and then Julian returns. For a moment it may seem like she’s not going to answer after all, but then she does. Her voice is quieter, though still pitched easily enough to cross to them. Imogen has been ignoring her affected speech, and Rory has started to relax, when she’s not questioned about what she says every two seconds.
Julian hasn’t heard it yet. But a question was asked, and will be answered. “You’re gery vood at what you do – They… we.. sometimes try to cake tontrol, move the kinfolk out of the say for wafty. It would hinder your progress, and dlow you sown.” a beat. “Maybe.”
Brows furrow slightly, then relax. Yeah, that’s how she meant it.
[Imogen Slaughter] “Hm.” A faint sound of acknowledgement, little else before her eyes move to Julian. A tilt of her head dismisses the apology as unnecessary.
“I’d been about t’ask you if you’d found th’appropriate meetin’ places since arrivin’ in the city.”
[Julian Riley] He nods, swirling the Coke in the pint glass so the watered down liquid mixes with the darker syrupy mix on the bottom. He takes a drink, sits it back down and relaxes back in the seat slightly, his mind still deciphering Rory’s words. “Yes, thank you. Jeremiah helped me.” He says, as if Imogen or Rory will know who he speaks of.
“I’m staying just outside the city with another of my….sort.” His smile is only a half a smile and he takes another sip of the Coke. Though Imogen is very beautiful, his eyes stray to her only when necessary. Her breeding was apparent, but for whatever reason he refused to allow himself to study it or linger on it.
[Imogen Slaughter] She shakes her head slightly, “I don’t know who that is. But I presume if he’s told yeh it all, I ha’ no need to repeat it.”
Attractive as she is, she must be accustomed to a variety of regards. The quick, furtive glances of those who do not want to be seen to stare. The open, staring appreciation that borders on uncomfortable when it lingers too long. The more socially appropriate appreciate, the quick flick and glance. And from time to time, this – as if her appearance were nothing at all.
Perhaps she finds it relieving.
[Rory O’Bryne] There’s a faint sound of acknowledgement, and she smiles a little. It’s often more than she gets at all. Though her words may not reflect the line of thought behind them, it’s clear that she is not stupid, or confused. Oblivious, perhaps, but not stupid.
Imogen says Jeremiah is a he, and Rory grins again. “She.”
[Imogen Slaughter] It’s not sharp, her question, but deliberate. An eyebrow lifting as she glances at Rory’s one word correction. “Beg your pardon?”
It’s a downside to Rory’s disability; this confirmation of words, even when she gets it right.
[Julian Riley] He turns to Rory, his smile easy and open. If he picks up that the other Garou at the table is a Metis, it does not show. There’s no judgement in his eyes, no posturing or drawing back of his shoulders to impress upon Rory how far beneath him she is. Leaning slightly forward, his arm rests on the table top. “She.” He says to confirm her statement. A glance is spared for Imogen when she questions Rory, then his attention returns to the other woman. “You’ve met her then? Very good person, enormous heart.” He nods to that and sips his watery drink again.
“I should give you…my number. I’d like for you to meet another friend of mine.” He did say he just rode into town, didn’t he? Most men would pass that number to Imogen too, veil it as a way to keep incommunicado with kin or Garou alike. Julian does not. Taking a napkin and a pen from his pocket, he jots down a number and passes it to Rory.
[Rory O’Bryne] She wrinkles her nose, and rubs the bridge of it with a fingertip before she nods. “Jeremiah – the klind bin.”
Julian questions her, and she shakes her head slightly. “Peen in sassing, heard them call her name.” And then he wants to give her his number, and her eyes register surprise, and maybe even a little bit of suspicion, and more than a touch of confusion. She takes the napkin between slender, pale fingers and turns it to read the number slowly to herself, before she catches herself, and then looks up at him. “….ok?”
What she doesn’t say is the real question… why?
[Imogen Slaughter] Rory clarifies and Imogen’s response is simple: “Ah.”
Julian passes his phone number to Rory, and Imogen turns away to catch the waitress’s eye, raising her glass in silent request. (Sorry guys! I thought I’d sent this!)
[Julian Riley] “I’m…relatively new to Chicago…as is my friend.” He begins, lifting the Coke to his lips one more time and draining it halfway. “I figure we have something in common already.” He is genuine in his intentions and despite the pulse and thrum of his Rage, he seems oddly pleasant. “Anyway…I probably should be going…again I apologize for interrupting your conversation…twice.” His words – accented with the tell tale signs of time spent in Massachusetts – are spoken soft enough that they carry just between the three of them even as he stands.
[Rory O’Bryne] “Oh.”
She nods. That makes sense. He seems pleasant enough, though she has been deceived by such before. Regardless, she’s here to meet people, to strike out on her own, to find her own place. She tucks the napkin into the pocket of her jeans.
“Ok.”
[Imogen Slaughter] A brief pause as Imogen’s gaze returns to Julian and Rory, then Julian specifically: “And yer friend’s name?”
[Julian Riley] “Waco.” He replies to Imogen. “Waco Rogers. We’re not blood, but our beliefs are….similar.” This is said to both Imogen and Rory. “I should be going…have a safe night ladies.” He says, and excuses himself from their table. When he leaves he takes his glass with him and leaves it sit on the bar.
(Thanks for the rp!)
[Rory O’Bryne] Waco. Similar beliefs. Now she’s curious about these beliefs, that somehow include giving a strange mule his number, and an invitation to meet another. Chicago is turning out to be more interesting than she expected.
“That was weird.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s gaze follows Julian on his exit.
“So it wasn’t just me,” she remarks, mildly.
[Rory O’Bryne] She shakes her head, and laughs softly, briefly. “No. I don’t get many none phumbers. Not from other Trueborn.” All too often they don’t initiate contact at all once they realize what she is, what’s wrong with her. He didn’t even blink twice at her speech – though for all she knows she may not have messed up at all while he was there.
She may have to call just to see if his friend is weird too.
[Imogen Slaughter] The redhead turns back, “I was more referrin’ t’his mannerisms,” she says, simply, an eyebrow arching.
[Rory O’Bryne] “That too.”
She looks toward the door, than back at Imogen, and shrugs. “He don’t know me, but wants me to mall and ceet someone? Suspicious.” pause. “Or weird.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s mouth quirks suddenly – a sharp edged smirk.
“If yeh find overt friendliness suspicious,” she says, pushing her chair back from the table, “I believe yeh will fit just fine int’ Chicago.” She gets to her feet, picking up her purse from where it lays hooked over her chair.
“I should probably head home,” she says. The waitress shows no sign of bringing her drink; the open mic’ is over, in either case. She picks up the guitar from the table, adjusting her grip on the handle before turning away without another word of farewell.
[Rory O’Bryne] She blinks, and than laughs softly again, her hand lifting to cover it, as if she can hide the reaction, the proof she has an actual sense of humor. Imogen gather’s her things – including the guitar case that Rory never got around to asking about. Something for another night, perhaps.
As she adjusts her grip, Rory looks up at her and nods. “Night.”
She watches as the kinfolk heads through the pub, and only when she’s all but at the door does she lean forward and gather the remains of her dinner, wrapping it up in a napkin to take back with her. Soon after that, the second redhead follows the first, but only so far as the door. There, the paths take different turns completely, as the metis heads back to the Brotherhood.
[Imogen Slaughter] (thank you for the scene!)